


A Deep and Rapid River

by Professional_Creeper



Category: Frankenstein - Mary Shelley
Genre: Blow Jobs, Cunnilingus, F/M, First Time, Fix-It, Fluff, Gunshot Wounds, Human/Monster Romance, Hurt/Comfort, Insecurity, Outdoor Sex, POV Female Character, POV Second Person, Possessive Behavior, Reader-Insert, Smut, Touch-Starved, Vanilla, literal roll in the hay, melodramatic monster
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-10-09
Packaged: 2019-12-29 01:20:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18297458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Professional_Creeper/pseuds/Professional_Creeper
Summary: A young woman falls in a river, and a hideous creature jumps to her rescue, only to be shot at and driven away by her fearful companion. If you were that girl, you would go after him, wouldn't you?Frankenstein’s Monster x Reader





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The reader-insert is based on the girl from Chapter 16 of the novel, who falls in a river and is rescued by the creature. In the brief passage in which she appears, she is described only as a "young girl": the same language used to describe Safie, Felix's love interest. Her relationship to the man who grabs her away from the creature and shoots him is not explained, and I always assumed they were courting. 
> 
> *ahem* a... keener reader might, however, recall the passage on the _last page_ of the novel, where these characters are referenced once more, as a father and child. OOPS. 
> 
> So. For anyone who is paying keen attention to the novel, this is an AU, where the girl from ch. 16 is Safie's age, and the guy she was with was a boyfriend (whom she promptly dumps for being a jerk to sexy heroic monsters). Anyway. Carry on!

 

> _She continued her course along the precipitous sides of the river, when suddenly her foot slipped, and she fell into the rapid stream. I rushed from my hiding-place and with extreme labour, from the force of the current, saved her and dragged her to shore. She was senseless, and I endeavoured by every means in my power to restore animation, when I was suddenly interrupted by the approach of a rustic, who was probably the person from whom she had playfully fled. On seeing me, he darted towards me, and tearing the girl from my arms, hastened towards the deeper parts of the wood. I followed speedily, I hardly knew why; but when the man saw me draw near, he aimed a gun, which he carried, at my body and fired. I sank to the ground, and my injurer, with increased swiftness, escaped into the wood._
> 
> Mary Shelley,  _Frankenstein_ , Chapter 16

 

* * *

 

After hours of wandering blindly through the dark forest, you see the glow of a campfire. Your breath catches in your throat. This is it. This must be him.

Gathering your courage, you enter the clearing where a huge, hunched creature with sallow, scarred skin, yellow eyes, and a wild mane of black hair, dressed in rags, sits by the fire. He jumps up, snarling like a wild beast, and you wonder if you’ve made a terrible mistake. But the sudden action makes him wince and double over, clutching his shoulder in pain, and he seems as pitiable and human as you first suspected when his strong arms pulled you from the icy rapids.

“Oh, I’m so glad I found you,” you start, forcing a chipper tone. “I worried you might have been long gone by now. I mean, you can’t be from around here, and given your reception, you mustn’t be planning to stay, and—oh, I’m rambling!”

“You are the girl from the river,” he says, voice hoarse and unsteady from lack of use.

“Yes!”

“Why have you come?”

“I wanted to thank you for rescuing me. The river is deadly in the spring with all the snow melt off the mountains. And to apologize for the man who shot you. He’s a fool.”

“Are you not afraid? None who have looked upon this cursed visage have not turned away in scorn. Perhaps _you_ are the fool, to have wandered alone into the woods in search of a wretched demon—have you no fear that I that I might kill you?”

“Well…” you tug nervously at the hem of your dress. “I admit it was a shock to see you coming out of the woods this morning. Actually,” you take a few steps toward him, squinting at the jagged lines crossing his face and hollow eyes; taking in the surreal enormity of his form, which makes you feel like a child standing before him. “Actually, I’m still a bit freaked out. But you’re not a demon. I mean… you saved my life even knowing it wouldn’t be appreciated. Why would you kill me after that? You’re obviously a good person.”

His tensed shoulders fall. Then his entire body sinks to his knees at your feet.

“How—how can you speak such kind words?” he whispers feverishly. “Why now, when the last cinder of my hope was extinguished? Dare you fan it back to life, when finally I was ready to steel myself against the cruelty of this world—to resolve my thoughts to hatred and vengeance? How can this stranger show mercy to an abomination, untouched by kindness, abandoned by its creator and scorned by all? THIS CANNOT BE.”

“Hey… it’s OK.” You try to comfort the raging, sobbing creature with a hand on his shoulder (which, even as he kneels, comes nearly to your chest). He flinches at the touch, gasping. Wet eyes meet yours in surprise. “Has no one ever been nice to you before? Surely you have a friend; a parent, at least?”

“None. My father abandoned me the moment I received life, and not one has ever shown mercy—none who has seen this abhorred face.”

Your heart aches for your monstrous rescuer. “Well, I see you,” you say, brushing his long hair aside to cup his cheek.

He meets your gaze, tilting his head incredulously.

“Here, I brought bandages and healing tinctures, for your wound.” You take off your pack, and gather the supplies. He follows everything you do with quiet curiosity. “May I see it?”

He pulls off his tattered cloak to reveal the bullet wound, exposing more scarred—almost mismatched—skin, taut over sinewy muscle. You try not to look horrified when there is much less blood than you would expect from a bullet wound. Instead, you speak gently to him as you clean the area, smoothing on an oily, antiseptic-smelling cream.

At first, every time you dip into the jar to apply more ointment, he instinctively recoils from your hand—his skin twitching beneath it as you rub small circles. By the time you begin wrapping the bandage, he is leaning forward with anticipation, letting out small, contented moans at your touch.

When you are finished, he reaches tentatively for your arm, his long, graceful fingers curling around it. He looks into your eyes bashfully, asking for permission—is this OK? He doesn’t want to stop touching. Neither do you. You scoot closer, and trace your fingers down his arm, until you are holding his hand. He mimics this, taking your other hand in his. You pull him into an embrace, resting your head on his chest. He smells like hay and oak leaves.

“What shall become of you now?” he mutters. His grip tightens around you. “How am I to return to my life of solitude? Despair will consume me once you have gone.”

“You’re crushing me—” You try to pull away but are unable to move.

“No—now that I know what it is to bathe in the radiance of human affection, I cannot let it go. You cannot be allowed to leave me.”

“You’re hurting me, STOP!”

He releases you at once and flies away from the fire’s light. A trembling voice emerges from the shadows: “I am sorry. You must go now. It was enough to be shown pity, even once; the memory shall sustain me through the days to come. Now you must go, before I grow more fond and cannot bear to lose you…”

You chase after him, and find him cowering away from you. Grabbing his arm, you turn him around, and press your lips hard against his. His entire body freezes.

“Stop it. You don’t have to act this way. Look, I get that you don’t have much experience in how people behave with each other, but you can’t just squeeze someone to death to make them stay. But if you can manage not to do that… you don’t have to send them away, either. You don’t have to worry about me leaving you, because I don’t want to. I’ll stay.”

“What? N-no, I could not possibly condemn you to this life. To tie your fate to mine would be—”

“—My decision. You know what? My life was boring until today. Now here you are—the answer to everything. Everyone is always making decisions for me. But this one is mine. I’ll stay with you, and you’ll let me make my own choices… deal?”

“Yes.”

You kiss him again. This time, he kisses you back, long, passionate, and full of need. He has never been touched by someone who didn’t mean to hurt him, and he is desperate for more. You open your mouth, and his tongue explores you hungrily. He trails consuming kisses down your neck, sucking and licking at the skin of your collarbone. Each kiss draws a soft moan from your lips.

Tangling your fingers in his hair, you open your legs and rub against him until he begins to grow.

“What… what is this feeling?” he pants into your ear.

“Oh right, you’ve never… Let me show you.”

You undo his pants, freeing his swollen erection. Kneeling, you take him into your mouth, swirling your tongue around the head. He lets out a helpless whimper. You slide down the full length, steadily bobbing. As his noises of pleasure grow, he places his hands on the back of your head, encouraging you to take more and more of him until you choke and sputter.

He lets go, face creased with worry. “Are you alright? I’m sorry if I… was that wrong?”

“You’re doing fine. Just be gentle.” Taking a grateful breath, you resume working him.

Before he can climax in your mouth, you pull away.

“Why did you stop?” he whines.

“Let me show you something better.”

You lie back on the warm earth and hike up your skirts, instructing him how to position himself on top of you. Taking his wet hardness in your hand, you guide him to your entrance. He rubs it against the opening, but doesn’t seem sure what to do next, so you buck your hips upward until he slides inside. He moans with pleasure. You gasp as he stretches you.

“Is this alright?” he asks.

“Yes, it feels good.”

“For me, as well.”

He starts to grind against you with little movements that make warmth surge between your thighs and spread in waves through your body, building pressure until you can no longer stand it.

“Now, go in and out,” you instruct. “Good, just like that.”

His thrusting is slow and uncertain at first, but instinct soon takes over, and he finds a rhythm, going deeper and harder. He bends above you to plant hot, desperate kisses on your face, down your neck.

“Faster,” you beg, and he obliges. His thrusting becomes wild; his chest beads with sweat; soft moans turn into frenzied grunts turn into animalistic cries that echoed through the woods. Then he breaks, his warmth spilling inside you with desperate convulsions that push him deeper, filling you completely until you come around him, burying a scream in his chest, and he collapses.

For a little while, all is silent, except for his gradually slowing breaths, and the crackle of the campfire. At length, he lifts his head and stares, lips trembling. Tenderly, he strokes your face.

“I need you. I had never dreamed it possible that I would find an end to my loneliness, or experience such pleasurable sensations. Yet, I must apologize for being overcome by passion.”

You let out a soft laugh. “I was overcome, too. You don’t regret it, do you?”

“No,” he says gravely, “but I fear you might. I am a hideous creature, and you, a benevolent angel. Perhaps, carried away by your mission of kindness, you allowed yourself to forget my ugliness. Surely soon you shall awaken to your senses and take flight, feeling only disgust for what we have done… for what I have done to you. If you knew the truth of my loathsome origin, you would be sickened; I cannot bear the thought of causing you pain…”

You tangle your hand in his dark hair once again, and kiss his gnarled forehead.

“You are a beautiful, sweet, melancholy little soul. I’m going to protect you from now on.”

 


	2. A Fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The monster you slept with last night is an emotional mess.

You wake up on the forest floor to the sound of cheerful birdsong, a large woolen cloak spread beneath you. Frost traces the edges of leaves and petals, the last remnants of an early spring night. The dying embers of the once-hot campfire are fighting a losing battle against the damp chill invading your clothes—yet the warm body at your back, with its giant arms wrapped around your waist, you keeps you from feeling cold.

When you roll over to wish him good morning, the he tries to hide his face from you, alarming you as he twists and jerks away.

“What's the matter?” you gasp.

“Don’t… Do not look upon me,” he pleads, raising a hand to obscure your view of him.

You try to reassure him that you’ve already seen his face, but he only pulls away further.

“Firelight may soften even the most hideous of features. The full extent of my deformity, exposed by the day’s harsh light, will not be so easy to forgive. Even I tremble at my own reflection—to your eyes, I will be intolerable. You will realize the mistake you have made… and...” his voice breaks. “I don’t want you to go.”

“I won’t go,” you promise, throwing your arms around him. You nuzzle his neck, peppering him with soft kisses, until he allows you to lift his face to yours. “There you are,” you smile. He looks at you with bated breath, waiting for you to scream. You kiss him.

“Oh,” he breathes. He kisses you back. When you don't resist, he relaxes into it, smiling against your lips. “You're not scared of me.” He begins to laugh a soft, joyful laugh. His shoulders begin to quake. He weeps freely, clinging to you tightly with his powerful arms, holding just shy of the strength he remembers might hurt you.

Then he laughs with delight again, then sobs, then laughs again, howling like a man gone mad. You hold him through each surge of emotion, rubbing circles over his broad back, until his mood switches precipitously to anger.

“Why aren't you afraid of me?” he says more as an accusation than question. “Why do you care whether I should live or die?”

“Be-because you saved me? Why ought I be afraid?” you ask, your heart noticeably beating faster.

“Because I am an abomination!” he screams. Leaping to his feet, he begins to pace like a caged tiger, gesticulating wildly. “You’ve yet to grasp what I’ve done to you by sharing your company. I AM A REPULSIVE THING! How can you even bear to touch me? Unless—of course!—you, too, are a monster.”

“What?”

“What sort of devil are you?” he growls. “To consort so willingly with a fiend, you must be wicked,” he towers over you, jabbing an accusing finger at your face. “An angel would never keep company with a beast. No, you must be a demon!”

Your heartbeat races, every sense in your body urging you to run away. For all he had seemed benevolent and pitiable until this moment, you didn’t know him, or how violent his fluctuating moods could become. His face contorted in anger, he _did_ seem monstrous.

Cowering, you try to back up a few steps, but he grabs your shoulder. Instinctively, you slap him hard across the face. He rears back—for a moment you brace for his retaliation, but instead, wide-eyed and dumbfounded, clutching the side of his face, he whimpers. “You struck me.”

“Yeah! I did! You were acting crazy!” you shout.

“It stung!”

“You were scaring me! My limbs still shake; I thought you might have killed me.”

“Kill you?” His brows fly up, and for a moment he’s desperate to reassure you. “I wouldn’t—not ever!” Voice hardening again, he adds, “How quick of you to take me for a murderer.”

“Well, I don’t know! How would I know that? I’ve barely met you.”

“B-because! I… I’ve never hurt anybody. For that matter, how am I to know you don’t intend to kill _me?_ Every human being I have met has attacked or fled me—how do I know you are not a baited hook, sent to lure me, love-blind, into some trap?”

“I came to help you; do I seem capable of such treachery?”

“I don’t know!”

You stare each other down, huffing with agitation. He has craned over you so far, and you have puffed up onto your toes so tall that your foreheads are nearly touching.

You can’t help getting lost in his eyes, whose unnatural yellow color give him a demonic seeming. The texture of his his skin is too thin, like tissue paper that had been crumpled, then pressed flat again over the muscles of his face; through its sickly pallor, the inner workings of purple veins are much too visible. You think he’s beautiful.

He notices your gaze, and quickly turns his face away, letting his hair hide it.

“I don’t understand how you can look at me like that, when I cannot even bear to look upon myself. Who are you? Surely… surely you have come to kill me.”

“Do you really trust me so little?” you ask quietly. “For me to attack you would be as the sparrow attacking the wolf. But in such a rage as you were, it would be a simple thing for you to dash my skull in with one blow.”

His breath hitches in his throat. He turns to look at you and his eyes are wet with tears. “Did I truly frighten you? Do you think me such an abominable wretch to be capable of harming so beloved and gentle a soul as yours? Repulsive though I am, I never intended to frighten you.”

“Neither your intention nor appearance are of any consequence to me—it is your behavior which causes me fear.”

He throws himself at your feet, clinging to your ankles. “WRETCHED BEAST!” he cries. “Please, allow this abhorred villain to alter his behavior. Instruct me, and I shall obey. Please! I beseech your forgiveness,” he sobs. “Please, you mustn’t think me capable of such horrors. Tell me how to redeem myself. I don’t know how to fix this!”

Shaking your head, you sigh, and squat down to his level. “First of all… get up.”

“I cannot,” he sobs into the dirt.

“Then sit.” You pat his head like a child. He sits, so hunched over in remorse he is nearly shoulder-to-shoulder with you, facing away. “Now, can you swear these wild swings of temper you are prone to will never escalate to violence?”

“I swear it. I am not the master of my emotions, but to do physical harm is a different matter.”

“Good. Then I only ask you not to accuse me of evil-doing without cause. Then I shall have no reason, in the future, to fear you.”

“Then this I cannot guarantee, when I do not even understand what drove me to be so cruel,” he sniffles, wiping a tear. “I always believed, if any being felt emotions of benevolence towards me, I should return them a hundred and a hundredfold—but instead I level bile at the very salvation of which I have dreamed.”

“I believe you only meant to be cruel to yourself,” you suggest.

He reflects on this, and nods agreement. “I could not believe anyone could look at me without terror in their eyes… and so, finding it lacking in yours, I put it there.” He groans miserably. “My loathing for myself runs deeps. If it is the cause of my ruinous behavior, I cannot promise it will never repeat. I know you said I mustn’t tell you to leave—that such a choice is yours to make—but if you wish to quit my company after such horrible mistreatment, I will not obstruct your departure.”

“Oh, hush. I already said I won’t go.” You throw your arms around his neck, and swivel your hips around into his lap. He breathes in sharply, surprised, then gratefully cradles you. 

“Then, strange girl, I must endeavor not to be so bewildered by your affections, and thus shield you from my uneven temperament.

“That would be nice,” you yawn, suddenly sleepy again nestled in his warm arms. “Now come, it must be time to re-wrap your bandages.”

 

 


	3. The Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You try your hardest to seduce the creature, but some questions must be answered first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More porn! Hooray!

After you finish re-wrapping his bandages, attending to the healing of his bullet wound, you realize your stomach is gurgling with hunger. He generously offers all the roots and nuts stored in his pockets. You take them gratefully, but wonder if he has anything more substantial, like oats or meat. He does not.

“This is hardly enough for my breakfast, much less split between us.”

“You may have all of it for yourself,” he offers. “I can subsist on less.”

You pointedly refuse. “You need energy to heal; I can’t eat all your food. Besides which, if this is all you have, then I’ll be starving again by lunchtime.”

“I would spend every waking hour gathering every edible leaf and berry from the forest so you may feast as royalty, except this blasted arm. Even with your tender nursing, it is a constant throb of pain. I am unfit for protracted exertion.”

“Then I see no other recourse,” you say, popping a stale acorn into your mouth, “than to return home, or I won’t survive out here with you.” You’re honestly amazed that _he_ can survive on such meager rations, as big as he is.

His shoulders fall, and he takes on an expression of mourning. “Then, you shall leave me after all.”

“Not at all! Come home with me, and I shall see we are _both_ well fed.” You explain that your parents’ farm has a barn and hayloft at the far end of a wide field of grains, at the edge of the forest. It is isolated enough for him to hide within during the day, since you are the most frequent user of the space, as you go about your chores alone. It would be easy to visit him there to continue tending his wound, and they could quickly vanish into the forest.

He is greatly relieved to hear of your plan not to abandon him, though he adds, “I am not keen on hiding in a village full of people again. The last time did not end well.”

“The last time you didn’t have me looking after you,” you smile.

Before returning home, you and your companion roast your small stockpile of vegetables on the embers. He sits close to you the entire time they cook, holding your hand, hating every instant you’re not in contact with him. But he still looks away from you whenever he catches you looking at him too long, and lets his wild black hair fall in front of his face.

You climb into his lap, straddling him, and begin combing through the snarls in his locks with your fingers. He gasps. Though he keeps shifting his face to keep you from seeing all of it, he braces his hands against your back to help you balance as you work, his chest moving up and down more and more rapidly beneath yours. Through his pants, you feel his bulge begin to harden against your thigh.

“Ah—the parsnips are burning!” he cries out, standing suddenly and dumping you off his lap.

After eating, you decide to delay your return a little longer. You strip your clothing off, undergarments and all, and hang them from a tree branch in the direct sunlight.

Your tall companion blushes a deep purple, and begins stammering. “W-what are you—um—”

“The sun is now fully risen, and casts a strong, dry heat, perfect for drying my clothes, which are still unpleasantly damp with the night’s dew. Come, you should remove yours as well: it helps them to dry faster.”

“I… um…”

You interrupt his fussing, pushing him playfully back against the trunk of an old, colossal tree. He gives in without argument, falling against the trunk as if you were the stronger, and leans down to you as you stand on tip-toe to kiss him. He growls hungrily against your lips, rough hands tracing down your body, exploring every inch of your skin.

“You are the most beautiful being in the world,” he pants, voice low and raspy. “An ethereal creature of light who has graced my lowly existence from on high—You are an angel.”

“I appreciate the flattery,” you laugh. “But I’m actually pretty average.”

“You are anything but common! Your heart is the most beautiful and generous I have ever known, to give succor to such a detestable wretch as myself. None has ever been so magnanimous in the history of your species. No human has ever seen past this horrible face.”

“There is nothing horrible in your face,” you purr, pressing your body against his. He whines softly, helplessly, leaning down to nip and kiss your neck, leaving red marks on your skin. You grind your hips against his—or his thigh, rather, as his hips are as high as your chest when he stands. He grows again, impossibly large, straining against the closure of his pants. You slip a hand under the fabric and feel the velvety, hot organ throbbing at your fingertips. You ache with desire imagining him inside you.

“Stop, please!” he cries, taking your shoulders and pushing you out to arm’s length. Sweat beads on his brow, and he pants. “I cannot allow this to continue.”

“What’s the matter? Did I do something wrong?”

He shakes his head emphatically, “No. I want you more than anything, but it is I who am unworthy.”

“Oh, not again,” you whine. “I told you, I don’t care what you look like. Please, you don’t need to beat yourself up all the time. I want you, too.”

He shakes his head in defeat. “You only believe you do because I have withheld the full truth from you. You believe my deformity to be a natural misfortune of my birth, or sustained in a disfiguring accident, do you not? I am sorry to have deceived you, even by omission—I know you will flee in disgust when I tell you the true cause of my fatal defect, and I would do anything to keep you by my side. Yet guilt weighs heavy upon me. I must cast off this burden, and let you choose, fully illuminated, whether to remain companion to me, or to curse and despise me, as any rational being would.”

“You have to tell me… right now?” you ask, fully naked.

“It cannot wait.”

He produces papers from the pocket of his clothing. With trembling hands, he gives them to you, then hastens to the far side of the tree to hide, awaiting your reaction.

The pages are full of grotesque images: anatomical sketches of dissections, human remains taken from robbed graves stitched together with parts taken fresh from tortured animals. The illustrations were not cold and detached, as a typical medical text, but somehow lurid, as if its author were etching his twisted passions onto the page. At first, you don’t understand why your friend showed you this—the notes are all rambling and etched in a shaky hand, difficult to comprehend. When you discern the author’s intentions to build a living man, all of the pieces come together. Your stomach turns. It takes a few moments for you to gather your feelings and return to the huddled form, making himself small clutching his knees to his chest, on the other side of the tree.

“What I read… it's horrible,” you say, voice shaking with emotion.

“I know,” he whispers without looking up.

“This Victor Frankenstein was a monster! The things he did to those poor, innocent animals—not to mention defiling the dead. He has no conscience, and yet he writes as though he believes himself divine! What a pompous, arrogant, self-absorbed egomaniac!” you stomp, crumpling one of the pages in your fist. “Did you see this passage here, he writes: ‘A new species would bless me as its creator and source; many happy and excellent natures would owe their being to me. No father could claim the gratitude of his child so completely as I should deserve theirs.’ _Ha!_ And yet he abandoned you, leaving you at the mercy of an unfeeling world. How dare he?!”

The creation looks up, blinking his wet eyes in astonishment. “But, are you not alarmed? The truth of my nature is too horrid to be borne by the human mind, too fantastical to be believed—surely you are shocked to learn it?”

“To be honest, I knew all along there was _something_ unnatural about you,” you shrug. “I wouldn’t have guessed _this_ , but, you did go on about being an abomination so I could hardly be surprised.”

“But, does it not disgust you? You revile my creator for his profane work, yet I am the result—all of his evils he poured into me, keeping the virtues of beauty and humanity for himself. Any execration you profess against him, you must feel for me a thousand fold!”

“No.” You kneel beside him, hug him and hold him tight, letting the papers scatter to the floor. “No. You share none of the blame for his actions. It is _he_ who darkened his soul with his misdeeds; yours is innocent. You have done nothing wrong.” You caress him, planting tender kisses along his arms, trying to revive his spirits. He unwraps his arms from his knees, unfurling them from his chest, and scoops you into the opened space, burying his face in your neck.

“These are a corpse's arms that hold you,” He sobs, breath hot and ragged. “The skin of a dead man wrapped around charnel-house bones. I am not a person, I am a macabre assemblage. You _must_ be sickened. You _must_ hate me.”

“I care for you; all of my feelings toward you are those of affection and love. You are a person, no matter what your limbs are composed of. A wonderful, generous, selfless person, who did not deserve to be abandoned and alone. Who did not deserve to be scorned for wearing this face. This body is not who you are. You have a soul, which this Frankenstein could not have had any part in bestowing you, for it is far brighter than his own. And besides which, is my own body any less revolting when described in such explicit detail as laid out in these papers?”

He looks you up and down, bare in his arms, your vivid flesh in sharp contrast with his ashen pallor. The corner of his thin lips slowly creeps upward. “I would spare myself no detail on the subject of your body, my dearest.”

Your cheeks flush bright red. “Damn you—I knew the moment I said it!” you playfully clap his chest.

“My apologies,” he laughs softly, trying to repress the salacious grin spreading across his tear-streaked face. “If I spoke too familiarly, I—”

You press your lips to his, silencing him. Timidly at first, his fingers run through your hair, then, encouraged by your moan, he pulls you harder into a deepening kiss, parting your mouth with his tongue, twining with yours. His hands find your waist, guiding you as you slide down into his lap, wrapping your legs around him.

“Do… do you want to…?” he breathes. You nod, grinding your hips against him for emphasis. He smiles, and shifts his weight as if to get up, but then slumps back down against the tree, cringing painfully. “Yet I may not have the strength. My injury fatigues me, and I have exerted myself too much already.”

“Is it alright with me being in your lap like this? I don’t want to hurt your recovery, of course, but you look so crestfallen—if you want, we can do it just like this.”

“Oh?” his eyes brighten.

“Mm,” you purr affirmatively, trailing your fingertips down his chest. “Let me do all the work.”

You undo his pants and free his eager length. Lowering yourself onto him, you ease down slowly, feeling him stretch you as you work, little by little, to take in his massive size. A flurry of shallow gasps issue from his lips with each inch of progress you take, and his eyes flutter closed in rapture. With a deep moan, you sit on his lap, fully sheathing him. He arches and goes rigid beneath you. You lean forward to kiss his eyelids, then begin riding him, arms twined around his neck for leverage, rocking together in a steady rhythm.

Helpless, desperate noises escape his lips with each thrust, and each noise makes you wetter. You love hearing how much he loves it. You take it as a challenge to get him to cry out louder.

“May I touch you?” he asks.

“Please.”

His hands explore your body, seeking out areas that get a reaction from you, teasing your nipples, between your thighs, caressing your lips—quickly finding which buttons to press that will make you moan. He loves that you can find pleasure in him.

As he gets close to the edge, he begins thrusting up into you more vigorously, bucking and writhing, forgetting his need to take it easy. He grabs your hips and moves you at a faster and faster tempo, but he still wants more.

“I want to... To be on top again. Is that OK?”

“God yes.”

He flips you back onto the ground, lifts your leg up over his shoulder, and begins thrusting hard, deeper, until he screams out, shuddering as he spills his seed inside you. Then he collapses to the ground, limp, luckily having the presence of mind to roll to the side to avoid crushing you.

“I should not have done that,” he groans, damp with sweat, clutching his bandaged shoulder. “ _Owwww._ ”

You caress his chest, smiling contentedly. “Do you want me to re-do your wound dressing?”

“No, no. Thank you, my angel. I just need… to rest…”

And with that last, weary remark, he drops promptly to sleep and begins snoring. By the time he wakes up, your clothes are dry.

 


	4. Hayloft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An introduction to life on the farm

The sun is nearly at its zenith by the time you sneak back to your small farm. Hugging the treeline that borders the green meadow where you grow your hay and pasture the cows, you and your partner keep out of sight from the small, wooden, steep-roofed house nestled in the center of the meadow, and head toward an equally small, wooden, steep-roofed barn a little ways up the hill. 

The cows are vocalizing their displeasure, stomping their hooves against the floor of their pen. The small flock of chickens, impatient to hunt their own food if you weren’t there to feed them, had remembered the use of their modestly-effectual wings and escaped out a window into the pasture, and now come clucking and fussing across the yard to greet you as you hop over the fence. 

“Hush, hush, shh. I’m so sorry to keep you waiting, my friends, but please don’t alert my family! Come, hurry,” you motion to the eight-foot tall being, now standing a less-imposing six feet, doubled over and limping behind you in exhaustion. He grunts in acknowledgment, and follows you through a backdoor into the barn.

The barn is not so far from the house that a mysterious intruder of enormous stature could pass unnoticed in broad daylight. Fortunately to your purposes, the rear of the barn faces away from the house, and directly abuts the forest, allowing your companion to enter unseen.

As the creature stoops to enter the barn, the sway-backed work mule rears back in his stall, forgetting his old age and placid nature in his fright. The cows, however, seem not to notice. The small herd of six animals, still penned in since the previous night behind a gate confining them to about half the area of the barn, moo amiably for attention. A higher-pitch moo follows, and a set of smaller hooves clatters in the bedding straw. 

“Oh, Edelweiss, you calved!” you cry, leaning over the half-wall to look at the tiny, pink-nosed calf. It follows close behind its near-white mother on shaky legs as she approaches you, reaching her cream-colored head over the fence for you to pet. You run your hand over her soft fur. “And I wasn’t here. I’m so glad everything seems to have gone well, in spite of my desertion.” The creation approaches tentatively at first, then seeing the animal doesn’t shy away at his appearance, leans over the stall with curiosity. He is instantly smitten.

“Is that… a newly-born creature?” His voice is soft and full of wonder.

You smile at him. “Yes, Edelweiss just had her calf last night. We’ve been expecting it for a while, but I did not think it would come so soon.”

“It’s so tiny. So fragile.”

You open the stall door, and cows and calf spring gratefully out into the sunlight, and begin grazing on the newly greened grass.

“Ah, thank goodness,” you sigh, observing the calf as it trots away, “her calf is a baby girl.”

The creature tilts his head in confusion, so you explain that, if it had been a bull-calf, they would have to sell him at market for meat. But a heifer they might keep, or at least sell to another family to milk. His thin lips quiver and yellow eyes instantly swim with tears.

“It would be killed? What monster could murder such a sweet, innocent, defenseless being?”

He has such an unjaded admiration for life, he is so benign, the routine of farm life is unthinkable horror to him. You can’t help but draw his face down to yours and kiss his shriveled cheek. He squeezes your hand tight as he tearfully watches the little cow playing in the grass. 

There is a new commotion of hens and cows  at the front of the barnyard—you recognize the vocalization as heralding someone’s arrival from the house. Your mother’s silvery voice soon follows, calling your name frantically.

“Quickly!” you hiss, urging the creature up the ladder into the hay loft. Her footsteps rush closer, squishing through the muck. A chill runs down your spine—with an injured arm slowing him down, there’s no way he can climb up out of sight in time. Your mother is at the gate. With his good arm, he reaches up to the rafters and pulls himself into the loft in a single, fluid motion. “Whoa,” you mouth silently, just as your mother throws open the front doors of the barn.

She cries out on seeing you, clutching her hands to her heart, and rushes to embrace you. You think she might weep on your shoulder. Then she pulls back, demeanor immediately switching to berating you for having vanished. She slaps you across the cheek. “Where were you?! You had us worried half to death—your father is still out searching, and the poor cows have been neglected all morning!”

“You could have at least let them out into the pasture,” you grumble.

“Don’t you try to blame me for your irresponsible actions! After yesterday… after we almost lost you once, how dare you do that to us again?” Her voice falters, and you feel overcome with guilt. And yet, you promised to protect your companion, and that resolution on his behalf gives you strength. If you could, by increments, introduce him to your family so that they would come to accept him, and then the rest of the villagers, allowing him to live openly among peers, then it would greatly ease his loneliness. 

“I’m sorry, mother. I know my accident caused you great distress. Surely you also remember Ferdinand’s tale of a great monster who pulled me from the rapids?”

“That foolish boy certainly wove a tale. Your father believes he was delirious with agitation over your fall, but I know a braggart when I see one, claiming he slew a demon—tut!.”

So nobody believed he existed at all. You could claim you simply wandered off in the early morning searching for morels and got turned around. You needn’t risk exposing the creature to danger by revealing his existence… and yet, you could not be his sole companion and expect him to remain happy forever. 

“There _was_ a man,” you begin cautiously. “Of tall stature, yet whether he was of monstrous form as Ferdinand claims, I cannot say. Yet certainly there was a hero, into whom Ferdinand discharged his weapon most egregiously. I went in search of this rescuer, to lend him aid if needed, and my sincerest thanks for saving my life.”  

The older woman gasps, staring at you wide-eyed. For a moment, you are afraid of how she might react, yet hopeful that she at least believes you. Then she mutters about your being of marrying age, and that this childish, fantastical carrying on will drive away husbands. 

“Listen to me, darling—you were hallucinating, swooning from the trauma and persuaded by that boy’s boastful tale-telling. You cannot fly off into the woods chasing fairy-stories. And if this story were true,” she makes the sign of the cross over her heart, “then you have been visited by a demon of hell, and we must pray for your immortal soul to be saved from unholy mischief!” As she speaks, she begins to tremble and grow more and more agitated. At last she decides you must, indeed, be prayed for, and drags you away in a fit of motherly attention, to spend the remainder of the day in church.

As she drags you away, you call out, loud enough for someone in the hayloft to hear, “I’LL BE BACK LATER, I PROMISE… EDELWEISS.”

  
  


* * *

 

 

Your house is a little over a mile from town—or rather, from the small village square generously referred to as “town.” Your feet are sore and your heart aching for your companion by the time you reach the white church at the center of a small market area, featuring little more than a bakery, a midwife who served as the town’s only doctor, and an open area for traveling merchants to import supplies from more industrialized areas, and local farmers to trade the offerings of their respective farms. Your family, for example, grows enough hay, and produces enough milk, butter, and cheese to swap to excess with families who produce more beets, potatoes, or pork. 

The poor farming village is something like a family, in that you all have very little individually, but share what you have, and thus always have enough. Yet, there are all of the drawbacks of family, as well. Though technically under some magistrate’s jurisdiction, the village is so remote as to be largely self-governed, in the same chaotic way a family is governed—by means of favorites, favors, and pettiness. Without the cold rationality of modern law, the town is also susceptible to rule by superstition and prejudice.  

Therefore, you take it with grave seriousness when half the town shows up at church to pray for dark spirits to leave your soul in peace. 

The hours pass miserably—not only from tedious bowing your head in silence in uncomfortable wooden pews, or from the hard wood bruising your knees as you pretend at being solemn through prayers you hardly believe, or from your neighbors sanctimoniously participating in the idea that your soul requires cleansing, but from the agonizing fear of the gentle creature being discovered in your hayloft. What if he gets shot again because you weren’t there to defend him? What if he worries that you abandoned him? Not to mention, well… you are hardly in the mood for holy thoughts when you can’t stop thinking about his body moving against yours. You long to return to him. Every psalm and blessing that keeps you apart is a torture. 

When finally you are released from pious imprisonment, you are the first to burst forth from the church doors, breathing in the cool evening air of freedom. A young man with sandy blonde hair and sun freckles runs to catch up with you. You turn and pretend not to see him, but your mother greets him with a sugary-sweet tone. 

“Ferdinand—the hero of the hour—my dear boy! So good of you to come and help my wayward daughter yet again. I’m sure you two lovebirds have much to talk about—if she hasn’t yet spoiled your feelings with her errant wandering. You have such patience with her. I shall not chaperone!” she winks knowingly, and hurries off toward your house, leaving you and the youth alone beside the church. You groan internally, for once wishing your mother wouldn’t leave you alone. 

“I worried for you, my dear,” he says, stepping close to you and taking your hand, intending to kiss you. You take a hasty step backward, keeping him out of reach. 

“What are you doing? I told you, we’re through.”

He laughs skeptically. “Come now, surely you were joking. You were hysterical when you said that, still weak from your trauma.”

“I was not. I meant every word.” He had better believe it’s over, you think, considering you had already slept with a stranger. Twice. And already felt you knew him better than the man before you. You walk away.

He frowns, crossing his arms over his chest, and follows you. “We made a fine match, and you expect me to believe you would throw it all away over some petty disagreement?”

“Petty?” you seethe, turning on your heel. “A man rescued me— _rescued me!_ And you shot him! Why? Because you found him ugly? Or could your ego simply not handle the fact that someone else saved me when you could not? This is an irreconcilable fault in your character, and ample cause to terminate our courtship.”

“That _thing_ was more than ugly. It was a monster. It pursued us when I saved you from its grasp. It was a demon with designs on your sou—or perhaps it intended to consume your living flesh! If you cannot see that, then…” His exasperation turns into a sly smile. Quietly and threateningly he says, “Perhaps you require more time in confession to clear your head.” 

“No!” you scream, a little too loudly. A few villagers, dispersing from the church, turn to stare. You clap a hand over your mouth and lower your voice to a friendly, submissive whisper. “No. That will be quite alright. I… appreciate your concern for my welfare. I do. But what makes you so certain it was a demon? Could it not have been a good Samaritan, born with an unfortunate deformity? A passing wanderer? What if that being were intelligent, and gentle? Would you not regret your rash violence then? Would you not accept such a man as a fellow-being, and share your food, clothe him, and provide him shelter, as the scripture teaches?”  

“I did what was right in driving him away, and I would do it again, regardless of the fiend’s cunning or charm. The Devil has many tricks. This is why you need me, my delicate lamb. You are too gullible.”

Your hand curls into a fist as a fire boils in your stomach. You’re about to show him just how “delicate” you are, when your closest friend Bess swoops in, seemingly from nowhere, to save you. “Excuse me, can I borrow her? Girl talk, _thanks_.” she says in overly-polite rapid-fire, taking your elbow and pulling you away. Before you know what’s happened, he’s far behind you, and you’re walking home in improved company. 

“Hey babe, are you OK? Looked like you were about to give him a thrashing. Do you need me to beat him up?” Her brown eyes go wide, “Did he hurt you?! Is he why you went missing?” 

“No, no, nothing like that. I’m fine. He’s just… such… a…” you growl like an enraged bear, curling your fingers to strangle his imaginary neck. 

“I told you he wasn’t your type,” she clucks. 

“My mom liked him.” 

“That should have been your first warning!” she laughs. “But seriously, I was happy to see you having fun with him, coming out of your shell, but he was way too… traditional. I’m glad you finally kicked him to the curb. Just stick with me, kid,” she throws her arm around your shoulder and gestures broadly at imaginary suitors, “and we’ll find you someone interesting. Someone different. Someone who gets you.” 

You smile, but dare not tell her that you already have. 

Bess offers to walk you home. Though you’re dying to get back to the creature, Bess is the one person in town you can talk to, and you have so much you need to talk about. So you amble along the narrow dirt road to your farm together. 

Once you’re out of hearing range of the village square, privacy emboldens her to ask about your strange adventure. "First you nearly drown, and then you vanish—it's weird even for YOU. And you know I mean that in the nicest way. I love that you do your own thing, but now there are rumors that a demon snatched you up? People are starting to talk, and I… I was worried about you. What really happened?"

You bite your lip. Would Bess understand if you told her the truth? Your mother and Ferdinand balked at the merest hint of what happened, but Bess was different. Sort of. She had been as cruel as everyone else when you were children, but as the two of you grew up, she felt guilty for ring-leading some of the teasing, and started talking with you when you were at the market selling cheese. You were surprised how well you got along. Soon you discovered she had a weird side, too—she was just better at hiding it to fit in. 

But giant man made of corpses hiding in your barn? That might be _too_ unusual, even for her. When she asked you what happened, there was a tension in her voice that suggested the authentic story would send her running. She is afraid the rumors are true, and she wants you to reassure her that there is a perfectly normal explanation for everything. 

“The truth is, I hit my head pretty bad when I fell into the river,” you finally reply. “I was confused. I don’t really know what happened. I wandered off looking for a friendly river spirit or something, because Ferdinand made up a story about a monster pulling me from the water. I must have been hypothermic to believe that. Then the warm air brought my senses back to me, and I came home. That’s all.”

She hugs you as you arrive at the entrance to your farm. “I’m so sorry this happened to you. And I can’t believe those superstitious idiots made you sit through that whole embarrassing service!” You both laugh. 

“My soul definitely feels saved.” 

“I hope you feel better soon. Stay warm. In fact, you should rest; I can take care of the cows tonig—”

“—NO!”

She blinks. 

“Um, that is,” you cough, “That’s alright, I neglected the animals enough when I ran off, so I really… really need to make it up to them.”

“Edelweiss had her calf and she’s so cute you don’t want to share, huh?” Bess cocks an eyebrow. 

“You caught me!”

“Well, you better introduce us soon. Goodnight.”


	5. Hayloft Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here there be smut

 

You are quaking with anticipation to check on your guest after a long day away from him. After Bess turns back down the road and disappears, you head straight toward the hayloft—but your mother is waiting on the front porch, and the twilight is not yet dark enough to conceal you from her watchful eyes.

“You should have asked Ferdinand to stay for dinner,” she suggests. “Go run after him!” 

“It was Bess who walked me home,” you correct. “Ferdinand will no longer be courting me.” 

Hearing this, your mother exclaims in surprise, making an incredible fuss, until her shrill cries summon your father—a gruff, ever-disappointed grey-haired man. In this case, his sour nature works to your favor. He silences your mother with cruel disinterest in your love life, and insists that you will _not_ join them for dinner, as punishment for falling behind on your chores. You’ll have to pack your meal in a napkin and bring it out to the barn so you may eat as you work. 

They can’t figure out why you’re so cheerful. 

 

* * *

 

“It’s me,” you call out, climbing up the rickety wooden ladder. The animals cluck, bray, and moo for your attention, but you hear an ominous nothing from the loft. That he had been discovered was your greatest fear, but surely you would have heard some commotion about town if that were the case. Still, you find new reasons to fret—is he passed out in pain? Did he believe himself abandoned and flee? What if the entire encounter _was_ some kind of delusion brought on by head trauma after all?

Peeking over the wooden loft floor, you are relieved to find him dozing, leaning back against the stacked bales of hay, surrounded by barn cats. The felines are curled up next to him, in his lap, and climbing his broad shoulders, competing over his attention. He looks up as he hears you enter. 

“I've made friends!” he beams, delicately scritching behind a tabby’s ears as it purrs. “These delightful little creatures make the most wonderful noise!” A tortoiseshell perches on his shoulder, rubbing her head against his withered cheek. 

All the tension and worry you had been holding since you first returned home vanishes, and your face erupts into a broad grin. “It’s called purring,” you explain, crawling over to join the very image of an Egyptian pharaoh revived in his tomb. You displace one of the cats from the coveted spot by his side, and he gives an annoyed mew. “I’m relieved to find you well, and in good company. How did you fare?” 

“Long was each minute I awaited your sweet return.” He strokes your cheek, eager to touch you again. You melt into the rough palm, closing your eyes. “Your absence pained me, but I was graced by mercy and fell unconscious for most of it. I slept I know not how long. When I awoke, this gentle creature,” he pets the tortoiseshell cat, “sensing my plight, came to tend to me. Soon she introduced a friend, and before long I was surrounded by purring companions. They are not the most conversational company, but they seem unaware of my deformity.”

“They’re usually more cautious around strangers, too,” you add. “Cats always see right to the heart of things. They can sense you are trustworthy.” 

“They greatly eased my loneliness. Even without them, this beautiful place is too lovely to accommodate misery such as I have endured before now. Through this window, I can watch the wind ripple through the fields of hay like waves on a lake, I can hear the river, whence we met, rushing through the woods, and admire the white-crowned peaks in the distance. Light streams airily in through the boards, driving away all dark thoughts and fears I may entertain, as if I am among the heavens! And now that you are here with me, I feel as Adam in the Garden:

_Nor gentle purpose, nor endearing smiles_   
_Wanted, nor youthful dalliance as beseems_   
_Fair couple, linkt in happie nuptial League,_   
_Alone as they_

“Though my creator I yet do not extoll, so many sensations of pleasure, so many benevolent emotions flood me, I am at last at peace.”

You can only stare at him in admiring stupor. He thinks your crummy barn is Eden—worthy of reciting Milton. The smallest things bring him such joy, you can’t help but be drawn to him and his youthful innocence. And he sees you as Eve. Are you any more worthy of such esteem as the barn? He has no concept that you're poor, or that he should want for anything greater. What will happen when his naivete is replaced by worldly understanding—when a barn is just a barn, and he learns that you are nearly as much an outcast as he is?

Shoving those fears aside, you sling your pack off your shoulder, and remove the bundle of food. The cats sniff the air and jump down to investigate as you spread open the napkin. “I brought some bread and cheese for dinner, along with roast parsnips. Would you care to share it with me?” 

“Oh, my beloved angel,” he sighs. “Baked bread! It has been long since I have dined on such rich fare. Are you certain you have enough to spare?”

“Of course!” You rip through the golden, crackling exterior and hand him half.  

His eyes glisten at the sight of food, but he is barely able to take a bite before his countenance crumbles into despair, and he begins to weep. “I have never been treated so lavishly. This is too much. I... I don't know how to ever... repay…”

You put down your food so you can climb into his lap and snake your arms as far around him as they’ll reach. When you’re on top of him like this, you can _almost_ reach his face, and with his head bowed low, you’re able to put your lips close to his ear and whisper, “It's alright.” 

He wraps you up possessively in his arms, like a child clinging to a stuffed toy for comfort, curling his chin over your head, completely enveloping you. “Mine…” he murmurs into your hair, so softly you barely hear it. Tears drop onto your shoulders. “Everything is so wonderful, I fear I will awaken to find this was a dream, and I am still alone and miserable. Please, stay mine. I don't want to wake up... I don't want you to go away…” 

As he speaks, you can feel the deep vibrations of his voice through his ribcage, and the convulsing of his lungs with each soft sob.

“It's alright,” you repeat soothingly. 

He sniffs and clears his throat. “Yes, of course.” He releases his python grip on you, and wipes his eyes with the palm of his hand. “You must tire of me falling apart so readily.” His black lips try in vain to form a smile. “But how _can_ I ever show sufficient gratitude for one of such noble grace as yourself to take pity on so low a beast as I? I have nothing to offer except my sincerest love and adoration.” 

You place your hand over his, interlacing your fingers with his long, slender ones. “Your healthy recovery will be thanks enough. And… your love.” Your cheeks flame hotter, and you both quickly look away from each other. One of the cats is nibbling on a wedge of cheese. You shoo them away, thankful for the distraction. 

 

* * *

 

After making quick work of dinner, you leave him to recover while you do your chores, bringing all the animals into the barn to be fed, milked, and settled in for the night. A mop of dark hair hangs down from the loft where the creature watches you intently. 

You smile up at him, and he scrambles back behind the horizon of the floor, hiding. A moment later he returns to view, blushing sheepishly. He’s not used to being seen when he observes people.

He seems fascinated by the animals and their care, though he lets you go about your work without interruption. Once every hen and cow is nestled away in its proper place, their straw bedding refreshed, and their water buckets filled, you climb back up to the creature. His eyes brighten, but he stops himself before moving toward you. You can read the timid tension all over his face: he wants to scoop you into his arms, but he isn’t sure if he ought to—if it would be welcome. You curl up in his lap, giving a contented grunt of exhaustion, and pull his hands over you, as if to say, “yes, touch me.” 

He runs his hands through your hair lovingly, picking out stray bits of straw. Then his hands explore. His rough fingertips brush the warmth of your neck, where your pulse beats against them. They delicately trace your collar bone until hitting the collar of your dress, then follow the edge of fabric down the low neck line. Light goosebumps raise along your flesh, and your breath comes out a shiver. His other hand begins caressing you all over. His hand slides down your back, lower and lower, over the curve of your rump. You gasp as his fingers reach between your legs, pressing the fabric of your dress tight against your cunt, and you jerk in surprise. 

He quickly removes the offending hand and stammers an apology.

“It's alright, I just wasn’t expecting it.” You were ready to fall asleep in his lap, but now you are wide awake. 

“Am I too bold? My heart burns to touch you, to consume you like a fire... But if it is contrary to your desire or will, then I shall be sated, and put away all prurient thoughts. Please, instruct me how I may behave to best please you."

You bite your lower lip. “I think.... you should unrestrain yourself and do as your heart burns to.” Your heart races with excitement, wondering what his uninhibited passions will incur. “If I want you to stop, I'll give you a signal, OK?"”

He shudders, giving a polite nod as he strains to maintain an air of gentility, before surrendering entirely to baser impulses.

He hungrily slides his hand back between your legs while the other caresses your jaw. A finger slips between your lips. You run your tongue over the callused pad of his fingertip, tasting the salt and hay. A moan escapes his lips and his other hand grows bolder in response, running down the inside of your leg until it reaches the hem of your dress at your ankle, then drawing up again, bringing your skirts up with it.

He spreads your legs apart, and begins playing with your heat through your thin undergarments. His breath grows excited and ragged as he watches you writhe beneath his fingers. 

“Is, is this still OK?” He gaps between breaths. 

“Shut up,” you moan, pulling his face down and silencing his worries with a hard kiss, whimpering against his lips as your hips thrust against his fingers. He stares with fascination as you react to each touch. 

“I want to please you,” he pants, black lips close against your ear. There’s a hungry fire in his voice, raspy and low, “the way you used your mouth on me before. What if I used my mouth to in the same way for you—would that give you pleasure?”

No one had ever offered to do that before, but his fingers felt so good, the thought of what his tongue might feel like in the same place sent waves of hot electricity down your spine. “T-that sounds nice,” you nod. 

The moment you finish your reply, he snatches you up into his arms like you weigh nothing. Your undergarments are torn off in a flash, strewn carelessly on the floor. He sits you on top of some hay bales and kneels between your legs, spreading them. He isn’t sure what to do exactly, but he’s enthusiastic to try. He kisses the inside of your thigh, sucking until the skin turns red. His tongue extends. He licks tenderly at your entrance, making your fingers curl around a handfuls of hay. Encouraged by your breathy gasps of approval, he deepens the licks, sliding his long tongue into your opening, stretching you open, filling you. It’s big. Of course it is; he’s huge, and all his parts are proportional—it’s as large as a normal man’s cock, and more flexible, hitting new and sensitive places as it writhes inside you. He grabs your hips, bringing you up and down, impaling you on his tongue, fucking you with it. You are so wet, and not all of it from his saliva. What he’s doing has you dripping.

“You taste incredible,” he murmurs between thrusts, lapping up your juices. 

Then he starts teasing and sucking on the tender flesh between your legs. His mouth discovers a bud of flesh above your entrance, and instantly you throw your head back and cry out, your back arching into him, your senses exploding with pleasure you’ve never felt before. “There,” you whimper. “Right there.”

Obediently, he darts his tongue over it, flicking quickly and lightly, until you're begging for more. 

“Is this alright?” He pauses to ask.

“Don't stop!” you practically snap.

You cling to the back of his head, pulling him back to your clit, holding him where you want him. Enclosing his mouth around the sensitive spot, he sucks at it, hard, drawing it into his mouth, licking at the same time, and you cry out so loudly you fear someone may hear. You clap a hand over your mouth, keeping the other clenched in his inky hair, biting your palm to quell the screams that want to erupt from your throat. He sucks harder, responding to your body, your hips convulsing into his mouth. 

You keep him on your clit, intoxicated by the working of his dark, thin lips and tongue, feeling the heat inside you building toward climax, but the vacancy now throbs to be filled. He slips a finger inside. You release a deep, melting moan, bucking your hips to take more of him. “More,” you beg. He moves the finger in and out, in and out, coming out wetter each time, while his mouth works at your clit. “ _More. More. More. More!_ ” You realize you’ve been repeating it, begging and whimpering, like a mantra. Both sensations at once overwhelm your senses, driving you precipitously toward the edge until you break, hard, coming into his mouth, digging your nails into the back of his head, clenching and spasming around his soaking wet finger, as ripples of heat flush throughout your body. You don't let go of him until the last spasm is through, and you fall back, body shivering and panting, onto the hay.

 

* * *

 

His body curls protectively around you as you lay together in the barn. He strokes your hair so gently, so lovingly, it’s easy to forget his size, his strength. It’s impossible to imagine him capable of hurting anyone. Hard to imagine why anyone would ever be afraid of him. 

You feel so comfortable and safe alone with him. You wish the world were safe. You wish you could introduce him to the world. But the villagers thought you were strange already, and if you showed up with a “monster” at your side... 

You find yourself staring at him. How could anyone see a monster? He's not so horrible. Not at all. You reach out and touch his face, running your thumb idly along a scar on his forehead. It's one of the seams where Victor Frankenstein sutured together skin that he stretched over a work of musculature and ligament, which in turn was built on a scaffold of stolen bones. This fact was both easy to forget, lost in your feelings for him, and the most defining aspect of who he is: the source of all his misery. 

"You are thinking about how he did it?" He interrupts your thoughts, noticing your faraway look and the way your fingertips linger on the imperfections of his skin. 

“I—um…” you blush.

His watery eyes dart away, and his arms, which had been curled around you, curl around himself instead. “W… what were you thinking?”

“Nothing! Nothing bad.”

For some reason that seemed to sting more than reassure him. “Ah. Of course. You behold nothing poor in this wretched form,” he says bitterly. 

“You must know that’s true, after what we just did. You must know it doesn’t bother me.” You stroke his arm, avoiding the bandaged shoulder. “It’s a lot to think about, that’s all. Before you showed me those papers, I thought you had been in an accident, or born with a defect… some extraordinary, but natural explanation. It’s fascinating. You really are something special.”

His face scrunches up, alternating between anger and sorrow, as if a war is being fought inside him. Finally he takes in a deep breath, and lets it out slowly, quieting whatever battle he was in. “I used to think… if just _one_ person cared for me, it would change everything. I could be happy. But it still hurts. I continue revolving like Copernicus’s heavenly spheres, with agonizing periodicity. Despite your apparent love for me, your every effort to console me, I fear you. I find it impossible to sustain the belief that you… that you could desire my proximity, tolerate the profanity of my touch… But you reassure me again, and in your closeness my desire for you overpowers me. I become inflamed by passion, insensible of any defect. Who I am is perfect, in those moments. Then it becomes too much, and I remember what a vile, miserable thing I am. I become angry. Suspicious. Vengeful. The most hideous parts of my soul reveal themselves, until I can take no more, and collapse under a sorry so heavy I can never escape from it. And then you reassure me again. When will I cease this miserable orbit round and round?”

You cuddle closer to him, intertwining your legs with and his, sitting halfway up on your elbow to look him in the eyes. “You're new to all this. It’s not unusual for someone in your situation to feel unsteady.”

“How many people in my situation have you met?” He raises an eyebrow with a soft, breathy laugh. 

“Ok, fair. I'm just saying, I _understand_. It takes time to adjust.” You smile. For everything he said about feeling trapped in a cycle, he just managed to stay calm and laugh at you when a minute ago he seemed about to fall apart again.

“Are all humans as wise as you?” 

“Well, I read a lot of books,” you laugh. “Trust me, you're not nearly as crazy as Hamlet” 

You stay in his arms, quietly talking, nearly napping, until the moon is high, and it has been too long to excuse your absence from the house on chores. You force yourself to rise, willing your limbs to part with him, against their every instinct to remain. His hand stubbornly remains locked with yours.

“Must you go? You cannot sleep beside me again?” 

“I must. If I stray from my routine, it will draw suspicion, and if you are found here with me, I don’t know what will happen. I won’t put you in danger.”

Streams of silvery moonlight cast a single square window of light on the black floor and pierce the aged siding of the barn in narrow slashes, giving a haunting funereal air to his cadaverous features and the sorrow in his slumped shoulders. An animal yowls in the distance. He breathes in a deep and ragged breath, that rattles on the way out. “I know.”

He lets your hand slip through his. 

“I don’t want to go, either.” You leap into his arms, wrapping your legs around his hips, and kiss him again. “My quarters are right there” You point out the window once he sets you down, indicating the room. “It looks out toward the barn, so you can signal me if you need anything. Let me know right away if you’re hungry, or thirsty, or if your wound feels hot or starts seeping, or if you feel anxious at all, or if—”

He squeezes your shoulders to stop you. “I will be alright. I have lived on my own with far fewer comforts around me.” He plants a soft kiss on your forehead. “My only distress shall be the sharp pining for your presence at my side.” 

“Alright. Good night, my dearest daemon.” 

Your bed never felt empty before. Tonight, it is unbearable.


	6. Cottagers

The rooster crows, and you spring out of bed, rushing downstairs to do your chores with a vigor that alarmed, but pleased, your parents. Pulling on your coat in the frosty grey air, you hurry out to the barn before dawn breaks.

The dilapidated old structure looms like a ghost at the end of the pasture in the dark morning fog. The wooden door creaks as you push it open and slip inside. You discover the terrifying, ghoulish monster sleeping peacefully in the cow pen, curled up on the hay with Edelweiss and her newborn calf. A handful of barn cats have joined them, sharing the warmth.

A feeling builds up inside you like air filling a balloon, and escapes your mouth as a high-pitched squeal.

He jerks awake in an uncoordinated flailing of startled limbs, putting himself protectively between the calf and the noise. “S-sorry! You’re just so cute,” you gush, lowering your voice to a whisper. His eyes meet yours, the confusion leaves them, and he smiles.

As the previous night, he watches intently as you set about your chores. This time he asks you questions, and follows along with what you’re doing. You show him how to collect eggs, milk cows, distribute feed, and pull up water from the well—the latter he watches from a window, so he won’t be seen.

When finally you are done, you turn your attention to the creature. Your early start means there should be some extra time before you’ll be expected for breakfast, so you tend to his wound, and lay down in the hay with him. The animals graze peacefully outside in the purple-orange sunrise. He puts his arms around you, and you rest your head on his broad chest, watching them through the barn door, safe in the shadows.

“You are a gentle creature,” you yawn lazily, running your fingers through his hair, and tracing them over the uneven skin of his chest. For all he may look like a monster, he has the gentlest soul. But the comment makes his jaw clench, and shift uncomfortably.

“You don't know that,” he growls. “I am not. The power of death is in these hands.” He holds them out and turns them over. Each pale knuckle protrudes like the pommel of a dagger, attached to long, skeletal fingers. Like everything about him, they are macabre in appearance, but looking past that to the person they belong to, you can’t imagine them capable of any wrongdoing.

“No it's not—” you begin to protest, snatching his hands out of the air and clutching them to your chest. But then, you don’t really know anything about his past, and begin to wonder. “Have you...? Killed?”

He shakes his head, to your relief. “To take a life is to waste the most precious gift. But I have contemplated it, and I believe myself capable. Before we met, I was determined to wreak misery upon he who made me. Humanity hated and scorned me, and so I decided…” He trails off, breathing deeply. “I am certain, had you not found me, I would have committed unforgivable evils; such was the state I was in. I have already committed acts of destruction: I set fire to a cottage where my friends once lived. I destroyed out of spite that place where they abandoned me.”

“There’s no point worrying about what _could_ have happened. You haven’t done anything wrong, that’s what matters. All you’ve done is... burn an empty cottage?” Wait, what? “I didn’t realize you had friends before. You always spoke as if you had been alone until now...” A dagger of jealousy pierces your heart. You push the feeling away, a pit of shame knotting your stomach—how dare you be upset you’re not his first and only friend?

His chest heaves a sharp laugh, but his eyes are sad. “I called them thus… In truth, I was their friend, but they were never mine. I took shelter in a low hovel attached to their cottage, from whence I could observe their lives through the year, undetected. I learned to speak and read from watching them, and in return I secretly aided them however I could. They called me a good spirit, and I called them my protectors, my friends. The patriarch was a blind man, and after I had mastered speech, I sought to introduce myself when he was alone, that I might supplicate myself before him for aid, and earn his sympathy. My plan nearly succeeded, but his family returned and drove me away. Despite all my efforts to help them, they could not stomach a ‘good spirit’ as hideous as I, and they fled in horror, never to return. Such is the fate of one wretched as I. In my life, only you have been able to tolerate me—I must assume by some anomaly in the shape of your skull which makes you immune to horror.”

“Hang on—so you were spying on them for a whole year?! That’s kind of creepy, _mon coeur_.”

“What do you mean? I would be delighted to discover a secret friend had been watching over me this whole time.”

Your head hangs, shaking side to side. “Oh, my sweet innocent daemon.” You swivel around and squeeze both his cheeks between your hands. “ _Of course_ you would. All you’ve ever wanted is to not be alone. How could you understand what stalking means?”

“Stalking?”

“Most people find it disturbing—threatening—to be watched by a stranger without their knowledge. And for an entire year! They must have realized the mysterious spirit doing them favors was you the whole time! I’d have been creeped out too if that was how we met! They would have run away even if you were handsome as a prince!”

His face is a mask of confusion, frozen with mouth agape. After a moment of shocked silence, it falls in despair. “Then there is more than my appearance that drives my fellow-beings from me? I always believed, if not for my twisted form, I might be accepted—but there is more? My sensibilities, my utter ignorance of the simplest conventions of social existence will keep me from ever experiencing it!”

“Oh, no! Please don’t… I didn’t mean…!” Good job, you broke him. “That isn’t what I meant,” you plead, desperately stroking the side of his face, but his eyes are frozen in a faraway look, sinking under the weight of a new failure. “What I mean is, maybe it’s not as hopeless as you think! Maybe people aren’t afraid of you because of your immutable physical traits, but because of how you present yourself. And you can change that. I can teach you!”

His unfocused eyes refocus on you, silently curious about what you’re saying.

“So much of how we perceive others is based on presentation. Dress a man in rags and he will be suspected as a criminal, or in the finest silks and he is trusted as a gentleman, though he is the same man with the same soul.” You play with his hair, combing the tangles out of it with your fingers. “Perhaps if we can obtain clothing tailored to your size, if we can groom your hair to a gentlemanly fashion, and most importantly, find some way to introduce you which explains your odd figure… perhaps then, you would not arouse fear in those who see you.”

“Do you think so?” he asks, hopefully.

“We can try.”

He smiles, shaking off his melancholy. Two massive hands pull you firmly onto his lap. “You are all I want, anyway. I don’t care about anyone else.” His hand runs down the small of your back, and lower, teasing you. A heat rises in your core. Something in the way his eyes smile when they look at you… suddenly, you need him. You lean up to kiss him, pulling on his neck for support, and his lips lower to meet yours, merging with sudden fury. He pulls the back of your head toward him, deepening the kiss, while his other hand takes advantage of your hips lifting off his lap to slide between your thighs. He moans, muffled against your mouth. The sound of his arousal ignites your own, and you writhe your hips into the fingers exploring you there, directing them over your clothes to your heat. You could get lost in him.

Your mother’s shrill voice carries down to the barn, calling your name. The hens cluck a greeting, rushing to the fence to beg for food. She’s not just calling you in to breakfast, she’s coming to the barn!

You fall off him with a yelp, frantically righting your clothing and hair, while he scrambles to get out of sight, massive erection outlined clearly even through his thick cloak.

“What is taking you so long?” your mother scolds, charging into the barn. She’s in a foul mood, but at least is too wrapped up in her anger to notice anything amiss. She snatches up the milk pail by the door. “I’ve been waiting on this for breakfast!”

“Sorry. I got an early start so I could take my time this morning—it’s no later than user!”

“Don’t talk back to me, child,” she huffs. “I worried about you. I keep expecting you to disappear again.”

“Oh, mom…” you feel sorry for all you’ve put her through for a moment, but she doesn’t let you complete your thought.

“Do you know how this has been on me? Our family is the gossip of the town. But at least we had that nice service for you. How did you like the service?”

It wasn’t a real question. You open your mouth to answer, and she is already delivering a lengthy sermon on how lovely the hymns were, and how she had the best voice, because she wanted to be an opera singer when she was your age, you know.

“Anyway, I came to fetch you for breakfast, and after breakfast, I want you to go into town and apologize to that boy Ferdinand right away and get him to take you back.”

“What? I told you, I broke things off with him!”

“You can explain that the accident made you hysterical, and you weren’t thinking straight.”

“But I _was_ thinking straight. I don’t love him!”

“You fool!” she raises her voice. “Can’t you see he’s your best prospect? Who else will have you? Do you want to grow old alone, a spinster?”

“Maybe I do!” You’ve had about enough of this. “There’s good money in textiles, and then I wouldn’t have to rely on anyone! You think I want to end up like you and dad?”

“HOW DARE YOU?” She slaps you across the face. It wasn’t a hard blow, but it stings like needles under your skin. An angry snarl emanates from where the creature is hiding. Your mother stands bolt upright. “What was that?”

“That was you hitting me,” you hiss between clenched teeth, playing dumb.

“Let us return to the house. Something unholy has fallen on this place.”

“No, I still have chores to finish.”

“Now! I will not leave my daughter alone to be preyed upon by a demonic spirit. Dear lord, what if the devil is following you? When you had your accident, you came too close to the gates of death, and now some devil has its claws in your soul… Come!”

“It was only a cow, you’re imagining things,” you plead, but she grabs you hard around the wrist and drags you back to the house.


End file.
